Paraskavedekatriaphobia
by Relativity1953
Summary: Paraskavedekatriaphobia: the fear of Friday the 13th
1. Paraskavedekatriaphobia

Paraskavedekatriaphobia: The fear of Friday the 13th.

Honestly, this has absolutely no connection to my last story. And, I have been trying for over a week to get this just right but every fic-bit I started ended up too long. I have cut a lot down from many of the bits, and they are written in many different styles -so I hope that it isn't too off-putting for anyone.

* * *

Sam wasn't superstitious. Really, he wasn't. But, at the same time, he couldn't help but notice some signs, omens, portents, what-have-you. And it was those things that made him dread today – today could only spell disaster. Not for him, of course, but for Dean. And there was a part of Sam that was completely, absolutely, positive that anything bad that happened to Dean today would be completely, absolutely, positively his fault.

For that reason, and possibly others that he was unaware of, he was currently making his big brother insane. Dean had no idea why Sam was so anxious and easy-to-spook today, but the constant edginess was causing Dean to feel uneasy. And Dean did not like to feel uneasy.

But, Sam couldn't allow that to stop him. After all, Sam had proof... well, memories, anyway. And to him, that was proof enough. Though he couldn't tell Dean – no, Dean would either become the placating and protective big brother or the teasing and tormenting big brother. It could really go either way. And Sam really didn't like either big brother personae.

So, he kept his memories about this horrible, terrible, no-good, very-bad day to himself.

oo0oo

**1**: _June, 1986_

Sam had only been four when the family moved into the Meyer Street Apartments and really could only remember his time there because of two things. The first was that their apartment, run-down though it may have been, sat across the street from the most wonderful park Sammy had ever laid eyes on in his whole, entire life.

The other thing he remembered about Meyer Street could further be divided by two distinct memories. The first being the large boy at the park telling Sammy that he had better be careful because when a beetle walks across your shoe (as one just had over the Velcro strap on Sam's left foot) it is an omen of death.

The second part of the second memory happened just before dinner that night. Sammy, having no idea what an omen was but having a fairly adequate concept of death for a four year old, told Daddy what had happened. He remembered Daddy patting his hair and telling him that there was nothing to worry about – only, then something unquestionably worth worry happened.

Baseball – window – CRACK – CRASH – SCREAM – glass – blood – Dean lying on the floor motionless

Too much happened too quickly for Sammy's four-year-old brain to comprehend. One moment, he was being reassured by Daddy and the next he was blindly following the man as he scooped up a bleeding and unmoving Dean and carrying him to the car. In a flash, Sammy was sitting in a waiting room on Daddy's lap while the man held him tightly and rocked slightly, anxiety causing his complete inability to be still.

Dean ended up being OK. After all, it wasn't the first time he had been to an emergency room, or had stitches or even been knocked unconscious. But Sammy knew, somehow remembered, that Dean had just walked between the kitchen window and his little brother when the baseball came crashing through. And, thinking about it later, Sam realized that the ball would have hit him straight in the face and done a lot more damage to a four-year-old than an eight-year-old (with a pretty hard head). It was then that Sammy realized that the baseball had been meant for him, and Dean had saved his life.

* * *

**2**: _October, 1989_

Just over a month ago, Sam would have said that seven was the best age to be. Now, however, he was having his doubts. He had been so excited to finally start school (as pre-school and kindergarten were not part of the Winchester curriculum) but now he was feeling differently. Everything he said and everything he did was apparently wrong. Sure, Miss Carol (the teacher) seemed to like him well enough, but the other kids were cruel. He had no friends and, worse, Dean's classroom was on one end of the second floor while Sam's was on the opposite end of the first, ensuring that they would never 'accidentally' run into each other in the halls.

Near the end of the school day, all of the kids in Sam's class were stirred up because the teacher told them that they were going to have a fire drill. They were waiting patiently at their desks, waiting for the fire alarm to begin its signal, when Sam found breathing to be more and more difficult. Fire had taken his mom – he might not remember it (or her), but he knew that fire was something to fear. And the more he thought about the alarm, as the seconds ticked by and his classmates murmured with excitement, the more scared Sam became and he realized that he needed to find his brother. Now!

But, before Sam could move, the alarm sounded and the students were told to line up in an orderly fashion. It was impossible to rush from the room with his classmates in the way, but once Sam was out the door, he began running and yelling for Dean. The halls were packed with bodies moving in one direction and Sam was a very small fish trying to swim upstream. He looked around frantic for an opening and found it – under the custodian's ladder that had been left propped against the wall.

Sam ran under the ladder and was about to try and squeeze through a group of older girls when a teacher caught him by the back of the collar and escorted him out of the building – but not before Sam let out one more desperate yell for his brother.

Sam was sitting on a parking block next to Miss Carol, trying to stop the tears from rolling down his cheeks, when the school nurse walked up telling the teacher that Sam's older brother was in her office – as he had evidently lost concentration during the fire drill, missed a step, and proceeded to fall down the concrete stairwell resulting in a myriad of painful looking bruises.

* * *

**3**: _December, 1991_

It was Friday afternoon and Sam was sitting on the steps in front of his grade school building, waiting for his brother. He honestly felt that nine was perfectly old enough to walk the few blocks home on his own, but as usual Dad didn't see it that way. But, at least if he had to wait, he didn't have to do so alone as one of the school buses was running behind and a dozen or more kids were lined up and waiting for their ride.

Sam got up from his place on the step to look down the sidewalk – for possibly the hundredth time! - in the hopes of seeing his brother. He was just about at the sidewalk when a quick little ball of fur with long ears ran practically under his foot. Very proud of himself for not yelping or jumping miles in the air, Sam resumed his look-out. That's when one of the waiting kids, an older boy who would therefore know everything, loudly told Sam not to come any closer to him because a hare crossing your path is an omen of disaster.

Soon, all the kids in line were either talking of the possible destruction that was waiting for him or arguing about the validity of the superstition – many discussions involving which animal is actually bad luck, if color matters, and whether time of day affects anything. Right about now, Sam hated his brother. Hated him for being late, which made him wait, which caused the kids to start talking about him, which was too much for Sam – it was all he could do to keep the tears from falling. He started to walk away so that the bus kids wouldn't see but as he began crossing the street when the kids started yelling to him – which made his eyes threaten even more tears. Then...

HORN – shove – SCREAMS – SCREECH – THUD – THUMP – Thump – thump – CALL 911!

Sam looked up from the ground where he had lost his footing. There, near where Sam had just been standing, was his big brother, lying on his back, right leg at an angel that any leg should never be in, eyes open wide, teeth clenched, breathing hard. Sam crawled over towards Dean and looked down at him. The tears were now beyond holding back, one even splashing against Dean's cheek. But, Dean looked up at his little brother and smiled and told him that he was fine, would be fine... but that Dad was going to be pissed.

* * *

**4**: _March, 1992_

The weather had gotten warmer, Dean had recently gotten the cast off of his leg, and Dad had gotten a solid lead on the spirit he was tracking. All-in-all, the day was shaping up quite nicely. Sam was nearly finished with his classes for the day and was looking forward to the evening's events. Dad had told him that he could camp out in Joey's backyard with some of the other boys in his class while he and Dean finished off the ghost of Jebediah Arkly – miser, monster, and local baddie who had been terrorizing the town since his death in 1936.

Sam felt like such a normal kid when he hopped into Joey's Mom's minivan after school – even more so when Joey's Dad helped the boys put up the tent in the backyard and set up their campfire for the hot dog and s'mores feast they would be having.

After each of the five boys had had their fill of hot dogs, they started on the marshmallows and decided to tell ghost stories. Sam went first and told them a scary tale involving the spirit of a little girl who spent each new moon searching for her lost locket – and though he left out the part about his dad finding her remains and the locket and giving her a proper burial to put her spirit to rest, the boys still agreed that it was the best _story_ they had ever heard.

Before Joey began the next story, the tale of Jebediah Arkly, he asked Sam to grab the bag of marshmallows that was sitting on a table behind his friend. Sam reached out and bumped the rickety table, knocking over the bottles of mustard and ketchup and the shakers of salt and pepper. Luke, one of the other boys, told Sam that it was bad luck to spill salt or pepper, and doubly bad if they were both knocked over at once – to which Joey told them that all Sam had to do to reverse the bad luck was to throw some of the salt over his left shoulder.

Sam took some of the salt and tossed it behind him, and everything went back to being normal and fun again – except for Sam's nagging suspicion that something bad was going to happen. The worry was enough to keep Sam awake most of the night, and by morning, he was almost shaking – which he told the other boys was due to all the sugar from the s'mores.

The boys were eating breakfast at the kitchen table when the phone rang. Joey's mom came into the room shortly after and told Sam that he would be staying with them for the afternoon. Joey was ecstatic, but Sam new something was wrong. As the other boys left, Sam asked Joey's mom why he was staying. She gave him a sweet, but pitying, smile and told him that his brother had been in an accident last night and had to be taken to the emergency room. But don't worry, she told him, he'll be just fine.

* * *

**5**: _August, 1993_

Summer – in Florida – in a motel with no working air conditioner and windows that wouldn't open – Sam couldn't think of anything _less_ pleasant. Really, the temperature was not too bad outside – it was the humidity. It was the sort of day that left you soaked with sweat during a simple walk to the newspaper box at the end of the sidewalk – even when the trip was made in the shade of the motel awning!

All three of the Winchesters were in fowl moods for various reasons. John was upset because his current hunt seemed to be going nowhere fast; Sam was cranky because he had come to the conclusion that everything about his life sucked; Dean was getting jittery because he was running out of things to do and he had never been comfortable with staying stationary for too long. It was a sign of how bad things had gotten when Dean, _yes Dean_, offered to go to the _library_ and _research_ their hunt further to try and find a lead. John made some comment under his breath about _if I can't find anything, what makes you think _you_ can_ – but when Dean offered to take Sam, Sam who had been consistently arguing with John about anything and everything, John gave the go ahead and basked in the quiet of their absence.

The library was stuffy with its too-small air conditioner trying its hardest to cool the too-big area, but to Sam and Dean it felt like paradise after the motel room. Strangely enough, Dean suggested that they actually do some research – Sam had assumed it was just an excuse to get out of the confines of their motel. But, Dean explained that, the sooner they get this hunt over with, the sooner they could get out of Dodge and hopefully go up north to a state where the temperature wouldn't get into triple digits. Sam couldn't exactly fight that logic, so instead he expounded on the plan and suggested they split up.

Sam went in search of the mythology section when something flew into the window he was walking past. He cautiously walked over to it as an old librarian came over to ask why he was banging on the window. But, as she followed Sam's eyes out the window to the ground, she shuddered. On the ground was a dead crow, neck broken after flying into the thick glass. She quoted some old Cherokee saying about a single crow bringing sorrow and scurried away.

Sam didn't think much about her cryptic words until he and Dean returned to the motel. It was as if the bad feelings were put on pause and started up again once they got back, and soon Sam and John were arguing once more. Dean, tired of the constant bickering and being ignored when he tried to put a stop to it, decided to take some action and fix their air conditioner. There wasn't much else he could do so why not at least try and cool things down a bit.

However, as Dean unscrewed the last screw of the front panel, the panel and several small brown-grey creatures with thickset pincer-like hands scampered out of the air conditioner. John and Sam stood frozen to the spot for a moment, surprised at what they were seeing, until Dean (who was trapped under the panel) cried out in pain as one of the claws tore into his shoulder.

* * *

**6**: _May, 1994_

Sam thought it was strange that he was more upset than his brother at the thought of Dean having to miss out on a school dance to join their father on a hunt. After all, it wasn't as if the kobolds couldn't be dealt with on a Saturday night instead of Friday. The had found the cave where the little monsters lived – the creatures weren't likely to move out even if they did somehow know that the Winchesters were planning to dispose of them. But, John had insisted.

It was just after dinner when they began packing their supplies – plenty of fusees to immobilize the quick little goblins and buckshot covered in silver, as pure silver wasn't necessary so why waste the money, to kill them. They were about to head for the car when Sam slung his bag over his shoulder and knocked one of the unattractive landscape portraits from the motel wall, which hit the floor and shattered the (surprisingly) glass front. John grumbled something about costing them extra money in damages and how Sam needed to be more careful. Dean was the one who came over to make sure Sam hadn't been cut by any of the glass, telling him that he would clean it up later and the motel wouldn't even know the difference.

They reached the caves quickly and quietly entered through the half boarded up opening. John had gone over the plan – again! - in the car and so, at the first fork, they split up – John going to the left; Dean and Sam going to the right. Sam stayed close to his brother, already feeling lost and disoriented, and really envious of the way Dean was able to mentally mark their path.

Sam didn't know how long they had been in the cave or how far they had gone, but he was suddenly hit with the inexplicable feeling that they were being watched. He kept his eyes trained, strained, to see movement or the glowing of the kolbolds' eyes but there was nothing – nothing accept for the goosebumps on his arms and the sudden cold he felt in the pit of his stomach. Then, he heard a little rumble – loose dirt and small pebbles sliding down rock walls – low, gravelly laughter – _Sam_!

Dean pushed Sam out of the way as large rocks came crashing down on the spot he had just been standing. Soon, Sam was looking at a newly-formed wall rather than his brother. Panicking, Sam called out to Dean, who weakly answered back that he was stuck and to find Dad, giving Sam directions on how to get back to John.

Sam was eventually able to find his father and the two of them took out all of the kobolds they found. Unfortunately, the little monsters were easier to find than Dean, as Sam could not remember how to get back to his brother. It took them several hours to find Dean, and then over another hour to remove the rock wall. It was slow-going to the cave's entrance but Sam tried to make himself feel better, useful, by serving as a human crutch for his older brother with a badly sprained ankle.

* * *

**7**: _January, 1995_

Another winter morning in another gloomy town and thirteen-year-old Sam was in a bad mood. The bad mood had persisted for days, all week in fact, and today, Friday, was no different. All week, Dean had been trying to cheer the kid up, but nothing worked – not the lack of snow (hey, no snow days Sammy – and _you_ like school!), not the good grades he was receiving (wow! another A – that's great Sam!), not even the fact that they were in a slightly nicer house than usual (your own room, Sammy – you've always wanted your own room!). Nothing could bring Sam out of his funk. And worst of all, Sam didn't know the reason for the mood.

He did feel a little bad at his rotten attitude. After all, he felt like Dean should be the moody one right now – what with John gone on a hunt (without taking along his second-in-command) and Dean unable to practice for his up-coming driving test (not that he really needed it, as he had had a fake license for more than a year for those 'just in case' times). But, Sam couldn't shake it.

_'Morning Sunshine_! Dean called out to him as he entered Sam's room to wake him up for school. Sam grumbled and rolled over, away from his brother (only to get smacked in the face with bright sunshine coming through his window), as Dean told him that he had made Sam's favorite for breakfast. Arg! Sam didn't deserve this – didn't deserve all of Dean's efforts to make him feel better. He crawled out of bed...

_Well, there's the problem, Sammy._ Dean told him, only marginally serious, but without real ridicule. _You're getting out on the wrong side of the bed._ At Sam's tired 'huh?', Dean continued. _You're supposed to get out of bed on the same side that you got in or you're bound to have bad luck, Sammy._

Sam was too groggy and grumpy to put up with Dean's cheerfulness so he grumbled and left the room, while asking Dean to _please, stop calling me Sammy_!

_Sure thing_, Dean said as Sam bumped into him on the way to the kitchen, _Shorty_.

oo0oo

**_note_:** Dean proceeded to call Sam 'Shorty' for over a year, until Sam hit growth spurt after growth spurt after his fourteenth birthday. Before Sam was fifteen, he had almost matched Dean's height – and Dean went back to calling him 'Sammy'. By sixteen, Sam had become taller (much taller) than Dean, who had stopped growing by the time _he_ was sixteen (four years earlier).

* * *

**8**: _February, 1998_

_OK_, Dean said, _so here's the plan_. _I'll run interference with Dad and you go and find something nice for his birthday. Nice _and_ useful. Something he'll like..._

_I've got it, Dean_! Sam said as he took the money from his brother's hand. Dean, his brother who showed little to no emotion and refused to get sentimental about anything, was acting almost girlie (though Sam would never say _that_ to _him_) at John's up-coming 40th birthday.

The plan was that, on his way home from school, Sam would stop and pick up something for John – something that Dean apparently felt he was unable to pick out, and not just because he worked with Dad and his absence would be suspicious, but Dean felt he lacked the necessary skills to get something 'just right'. Dean assured him (many times!) that Sam's ability to do just that was a good thing, honestly, no joke, and something he was... well, he would never come right out and say he was jealous of Sam for anything.

So, on the way home from school, Sam stopped by a local pawn shop and looked around for a gift that was 'just right'. His first thought was something silver – the Winchesters could always use silver and he knew John would appreciate it; but Sam had serious doubts that the 'silver' items he saw were _real_ silver. Though at fifteen Dean would have been able to purchase a weapon with a fake ID and his trademark confidence, Sam had a baby face and was far too nervous to pull it off. So, that left him with finding some rare object – whose worth was probably not even known to the pawn shop owner.

He was walking through the aisles, scanning the shelves and tables, when something caught his eye. _It couldn't be_. He leaned in closer for another look...

_Hey kid_, the shop owner called out, _don't you know its back luck to rock an empty rockin' chair?_

Not for me, Sam thought as he apologized and stilled the chair. On a dust-covered shelf almost hidden from plain view, was a volume that Sam had only ever heard of. Stuck between a first edition "Nancy Drew and the Secret of the Old Clock" and a box full of plastic-wrapped Archie comics, was "The Greater Key of Solomon". It wasn't an original 15th century Greek text, but it was definitely from the 16th or 17th century.

Sam scooped up the box of Archie comics and put the ragged old grimoire on top. _How much for these?_ He asked the shop owner. The greasy old man took a look at Sam's selection. _50 bucks._ Sam looked at the stack and took the book away, asking_ now how much?_ _$45 – hey, kid_ (the guy said to Sam's look of dismay) _these are originals_.

Sam heaved a deep sigh and then pushed the comics aside and placed the book on the counter once more. _OK, I'll take this for the $5_. No one could ever accused him of _not_ learning a thing or two from his brother. His triumphant mood was dashed, however, when he got home and listened to the one message on the answering machine. It was John's shaky (shaky? Dad?) voice telling him:

_Sammy, we had a little accident at the garage. Dean's OK! But, he has a concussion. I'll be home a little late tonight_.

* * *

**9**: _August, 1999_

Sam was walking home from the library. He had volunteered to go and research the black dog that the Winchesters were in town hunting for. So far, they had only heard stories – hadn't seen any actual evidence. But, John was convinced that his contact had been correct and so they remained.

Sam had been trying, honestly he had, not to fight with Dad. And, to give the man some credit, he had the feeling that Dad was trying too. They had been at each other's throats more recently than ever before and finally realized that it was Dean who was suffering for it when the middle Winchester collapsed during an easy hunt due to exhaustion from having not slept nor eaten (and, _no_, coffee did not count as a meal) in days.

However, Dean was never one who enjoyed when people walked around on eggshells around/for him – and so, as a compromise, Sam and John had been spending as much time apart as possible. After all, its harder to argue and fight when not around one another... right?

So, Sam was walking home from the library when he began to feel he was being watched. It wasn't a hair standing on end sort of feeling – more like a non-threatening, but still disconcerting feeling. So, he turned around to find... no one. He looked all around, then finally looked down – and saw a dog, no a poodle, no a black and fluffy poodle with a pink faux-diamond-studded collar and matching pink ribbon on its tail. Sam began walking again, but quickly stopped and turned around – to find the poodle was actually following him.

Laughing to himself, (and hoping for the poodle's sake that it was female) he kept walking. He didn't really care that this strange dog was following him – he had larger and more vicious black dogs on his mind. However, when he got home, he found an empty apartment – save for the note from Dean which explained that John had gone to meet his contact and Dean had gone to play pool.

Knowing that there was only one bar within walking distance (and having seen the Impala still in the driveway), Sam grabbed his brother's keys and went in search of Dean. The drive took mere moments, which Sam was thankful for as, when he reached the bar, he could tell that there was trouble. He barely shut the car door before he ran into the bar and found a foursome of large bikers trying to tear his brother limb from limb. While Dean may have been able to fend for himself on a normal day, he was still recovering from his recent exhaustion and dehydration.

Before Sam was able to join the brawl, he (and everyone in the bar) heard sirens in the distance – coming closer and closer (as the bartender had threatened). Sam took the distraction as a good omen, grabbed a half-conscious Dean, hauled his brother from the bar and practically threw him into the car, and sped off just as the police were coming into the parking lot from the opposite side.

* * *

**10**: _April, 2001_

Has Sam ever mentioned that he hated hunting? Actually, 'hate' is not strong enough – he detests, loathes, abhors it. Oh yeah, that's right – perfect 800 in critical reading... almost the same in Math and Writing... but apparently, a nearly-perfect SAT score means nothing to John Winchester.

Sorry. What was he saying? Oh right, Sam hates hunting. However, what's he doing on a wonderful Friday evening in April? What? Are you saying that _all_ 18-year-olds are _not_ sitting in a cold and damp field with their old brothers, waiting for a mythological cat with two tails and the ability to raise the dead with a wave of a paw (yeah, paw!) at the request of their fathers? Hmm...

So, its called a _nekomata_ – let's put aside for a moment the fact that this is a Japanese mythological creature and they are currently in Minnesota... Let's also put aside that this is the absolute stupidest thing Sam has ever done – which actually says quite a bit. Let's actually focus on the fact that Dean, his father-hero-worshiping, WWJWD (yes, 'what would John Winchester do?') brother is taking this seriously. Really seriously. And Sam can't believe there was a time that he actually thought his brother knew everything.

Needless to say, Sam is _not_ taking this hunt seriously. In fact, he is quite plainly ridiculing every little thing about this hunt – from the idea of the nekomata, to his father's (and, therefore, brother's) belief in the creature. He can't help but make sarcastic comments on the whole thing, all night long.

_Hey Dean_, he says, _is that it?_ He points to a white cat sitting in a tree about twenty feet from them, staring at them. To his credit, Dean has not yelled at, hit, or threatened Sam. Sam's beginning to think there is something wrong with Dean.

When nothing has happened by morning and John calls them to tell them that he thinks the whole hunt is a bust, Sam scoffs but Dean simply gets up and walks to the car. He unlocks the door but then hesitates, and finally asks Sam to drive. Now Sam _knows_ there's something wrong with Dean.

By the time they reach the motel, Dean is shivering and coughing... coughing up blood as it turns out. Sam runs to the motel room and demands John come with him to take Dean to the emergency room. John says 'no' but then follows when Sam threatens to go without him.

So, pneumonia. Dean has pneumonia. His temperature is too high and his blood pressure too low – and yet he apologizes to John in near-delirium for not finding 'the cat'. Yeah, Sam has got to get away from these people.

* * *

**11**: _May, 2005_

"Sam!" Jessica yells at him with no real malice. "You can't open that umbrella inside."

"Why not? It's raining."

"Yes, but it's bad luck to open an umbrella inside the house. You have to wait until you're outside."

"First of all," he tells her with a smile that shows his dimples, "this is an apartment, not a house – so the rules are probably different. Second, there is no porch or awning out there. If I wait to open the umbrella outside, I will already be wet."

"So, bad luck doesn't bother you?"

"Jess, bad luck has never affected me."

* * *

**12**: _January, 2006_

Sam had only been traveling with Dean (again) for a couple months. From the bits of stories that Dean had told him about their time apart, Sam had finally realized something. Dean, big brother extraordinaire, has always been there to save him. Yes, Sam has also watched his brother's back from time to time, but this is different. Dean, whether physically there or just there in memory, has always saved Sam.

He found out, not from Dean but from John's journal, that in May of '05 Dean was seriously injured on a hunt. Since Dean wouldn't talk about it (and John didn't give any details), Sam had only his own mind to fill in the blanks. And somewhere in that card catalog he called a brain, he finally realized – Friday the 13th, the most unlucky day of the year, Sam always came across some unlucky superstition/omen/old wives' tale, but it was always Dean who suffered for it. Dean was always there to take the bad luck for him.

So, when he saw the funeral procession slowly heading south as they were heading north, Sam was suddenly very glad that they had faced and defeated Bloody Mary (and in the process smashed enough mirrors for a lifetime of bad luck) over a month ago.

* * *

**13**: _October, 2006_

He knows that he's making his big brother crazy – he really does. And yet, at the same time, he can't bring himself to care. Its not that he doesn't care about his brother's sanity or that he is intentionally trying to torment, its that Sam can not risk letting Dean out of his sight. Today, of all days, Sam doesn't want to take any chances.

He knows all of the silly old superstitions and is being careful not to do anything that will cause bad luck. Not that he is superstitious, its just that he would rather err on the side of caution. Sam knows from past experiences that Friday the 13th is not something to take lightly – and he cares too much for his brother's health and well-being to take any chances.

* * *

**Author's Note**: So, I have actually kept the bits and pieces that I cut from many of the little stories here. And many of the ones that I wrote that were short enough do have story outlines behind them. I would love to hear from people - should I continue on with each little fic-bit as a full-length chapter/story? If I get enough responses telling me to do so, I will continue. Otherwise, I won't bother. Its up to you! 


	2. June 1986

1

_June 1986_

Sammy had only been four for a month when the Winchesters moved (again) into an apartment on Meyer Street. But, unlike the last two apartments (the only two places Sammy had really known as home), he really liked this place. If he had been older, maybe he would have noticed that it was small and rundown and not in a very nice neighborhood – but Sam was only four and so all he noticed was that there was a park across the street.

On one particularly beautiful Friday afternoon in June, just after school had let out for summer break, Daddy allowed Dean to walk Sammy over to the park – just the two of them! - while Daddy worked on his car (and cast a watchful eye on his boys and their surroundings) from across the street. Before they could cross to the park, though, Daddy had pulled Dean aside for his extra instructions – Sammy didn't need to hear them (again) because he knew what Daddy was saying: _Watch out for Sammy, blah blah blah_.

Sammy waited as patiently as a four year old could, practically salivating at the sight that was so close and yet so far. The Meyer Street Park was filled with swings and slides and seesaws... pretty much the stuff of four-year-old dreams. As soon as he heard his big brother's _Yes, sir_, he grabbed Dean's hand (his cross-the-street pass) and practically ran to the edge of the brown, barren lawn and then nearly dragged his brother across the lifeless street. Daddy returned to tinkering under the hood (where no one could see his fatherly, warm-hearted smile) of the car – every so often looking up to check on his boys.

Dean, as usual, had let Sammy lead the way. And Sammy, like a kid in a candy store (or a kid at a park), ran from one spot to the next to the next to the next with more energy than an adult could even dream of (even after their morning cup of coffee). He was having a blast and knew, for a fact, that he had the absolute coolest big brother around. He could see the looks of envy the other kids around his age were throwing his way as Dean kept up with Sammy and they had to wait on their slow-poke parents to follow them.

And, Dean would push Sammy on the swings (instead of swinging on his own), telling him when to pump his legs but still pushing so he swung higher than anyone. Dean knew the perfect way to push the swing so it felt like Sammy was soaring.

"Can I jump?" Sammy asked. He loved the weightless feeling of flying through the air when he jumped from the swing.

"Not just yet, Sammy," Dean told him. Dean also knew the perfect time to jump off a swing – the just-right place between boring and scary. "OK, get ready..." Dean told him after the swing slowed down a little. They counted off together, three, two, one – and Sammy jumped, giggling through the air.

When Sammy landed, he ran to the big tube slide, never once doubting that Dean would be there at the bottom to make sure he didn't fall. Dean could always tell by the height of the slide, the shininess of the surface, and how Sammy was sitting just where to stand to catch his little brother at the perfect time. Sammy wasn't sure if it was something his big brother learned in school or if all big brothers were just born with the knowledge.

Dean also knew where to sit on the seesaw so that his and Sammy's weights were balanced. Sammy never had to wait or look for another kid his size because Dean was always there and he was brilliant. And, Sammy knew that this skill was not acquired in school because Dean had been able to accomplish it for as long as Sammy could remember – before he even started school.

"What do you want to do now, Sammy?" Dean asked.

"Hey kid, you better not do anything else today. The park could be a dangerous place for you." Sammy and Dean looked up to see three boys, older and bigger than Dean, walk up to them.

"It's a park," Dean told the boy as he moved in front of Sammy. "What's so dangerous about it?"

The boy in the middle, obviously the leader, looked at his two friends. The three of them had surprised looks on their faces – they were so serious that it was almost funny (if they hadn't been scaring his little brother). The middle boy looked at Dean again and then pointed down at Sammy's left shoe.

"Its a beetle," Dean said as he watched the little round insect crawl over the Velcro strap of his brother's shoe.

"Yeah," the boy on the right said. "Don't you know what that means?"

"That we're outside... where there's bugs?" Dean tried.

"Kid," the boy on the left said with a mixture of exasperation and surprise, "its an omen... for death."

"What?" Dean asked, but then noticed that Sammy had now grabbed his arm tightly and was shaking.

"A beetle walking over a person's shoe means that they're gonna die," the middle boy told him matter-of-factly. "Probably soon. And _today_ is not a day to be taking chances."

"Dean?" Sammy whimpered behind his brother.

"Its OK Sammy. Its just a superstition."

Sammy looked up at his brother with big, watery eyes. Dean took him by the hand and smiled reassuringly just as Dad called them home from across the street. They began to walk and the three boys backed up to give them plenty of room. They heard one mumble something about not wanting the bad luck to rub off and another call out to Dean to be _careful around the little kid_.

After getting home and washing up for dinner, Sammy relayed what the boys at the park had told them to Dad, ignoring the way Dean rolled his eyes at every detail. Dad, just like Dean, tried to calm Sammy down.

"Sammy, I know that there are a lot of scary things out there, but this is not one of them," Dad told him. "Its just an old superstition."

"What's a stuper-tition?"

"A superstition," Dean corrected him as he pulled three plates and three mugs from the cupboard, "is just some silly idea that something will bring you good luck or bad luck. Like knocking on wood or carrying a rabbit's foot will actually bring good luck. The rabbit started with _four_ feet and they didn't do him any good!"

Sammy laughed at his brother and John smiled – not for the first time was he grateful for his older son's strange ability to make light of almost anything. Unfortunately, the crisis wasn't completely averted as Sammy remembered what else the boys had said.

"But why did they say it was 'specially bad today?" Sammy asked his dad.

For a moment, Dad and Dean were quiet. They looked at each other, trying to come up with a reason that wouldn't panic Sammy even more – it was bad enough that the kid was falling for some random superstition, they didn't need him to be afraid of a specific (reoccurring) date. When they both drew blank, Dad patted Sammy's head and mumbled something about not knowing why...

But none of that really mattered since that was the same moment the kitchen window 'sploded.

Well, it didn't really explode, but it sure seemed like it to Sammy. He barely had time to register the sound of shattering glass before he was being tackled, out of his chair and to the ground, only to be cushioned by Daddy's big strong hands under his head and back.

"Sammy," Daddy cried, though it was barely louder than a whisper, "you OK? Sammy?" He was still shielding the boy with his body while searching for injuries, silently thanking his years of military training and more recent demon hunting for keeping his reflexes sharp.

The kitchen was now quiet, except for Sammy's sniffles as he tried to stop crying. Too much happened too quickly for his four-year-old brain to comprehend. There was a slight stinging on his forehead above his right eye, but mostly he was just scared. He looked at his dad's worried face and nodded quickly, then wiped his sleeve under his nose.

John smiled and took a deep breath. It was OK – scary – but OK. He looked around to survey the damage...

That's when the calm broke again.

Lying in a crumpled heap on the floor in front of the window was Dean. John couldn't see the boy's face, as it was turned away from him, but he could see the bloody gash on the back of his son's head. He could also see shards of thick glass, some with blood on them, from the window circling Dean – along with some broken pieces of plates and mugs.

Though Sammy had been the one sitting at the table in front of the window, Dean had walked in front of it on his way to setting the table for dinner – at the exact right (or wrong) time. The ball would have hit Sammy straight in the face and done a lot more damage to a four-year-old than an eight-year-old (with a pretty hard head).

The thoughts flashed through John's mind before he was able to push them aside and regain control of his body. He half-crawled, half-lunged over to his older son. He did a quick assessment of the boy's injuries (head trauma, and no doubt, a concussion with various superficial cuts on his arms and face and chest from the broken glass and dishes) and determined that moving him (gently) would cause no further injury.

He scooped the boy into his arms and carried him to the car, all the while knowing without looking that Sammy was shadowing him. While he hated to add to the traumatic experience of his younger son, John told the boy to keep his brother as still as possible and laid the bleeding unconscious boy so that his head was in Sammy's lap.

Maybe it was the way the brain worked – coping with difficult situations. At four, Sammy didn't think about this sort of thing. All he knew was that the ride to the hospital went by as fast as if they were teleported, only he didn't think he heard anyone say _Beam me up_. The time between seeing Dean, his big and strong and fearless Dean, bleeding on the kitchen floor to now – sitting on Daddy's lap in the waiting area of the emergency room – was all a blur of fear and blood and fear and holding Dean tightly and fear and Daddy bursting into the ER yelling and fear and doctor's taking Dean away and fear.

Suddenly Sammy was very tired. He closed his eyes so that he didn't have to see Dean's blood on his clothes and soon, with the help of Daddy's anxious rocking, he was asleep.

"Sammy," the deep voice said softly, pulling Sammy slowly out of his sleep. "Sammy, we can see Dean now. He's OK and we can go in and see him."

Between the rush of memories and the sight of his brother's blood all over him, Sammy barely had time to lean forward before vomiting every meal he had eaten in the past three days. Somehow he managed to miss John completely, but his clothes were now covered in two upchuck-inducing substances.

Two nurses took pity on the poor, now-sobbing, little boy. One brought him some spare scrubs to change into and the other gave him a warm washcloth and some water. After Sammy had calmed down a bit, one of the nurses led them to Dean's room, explaining on the way that Dean was awake but will most likely be a little confused.

Dean was no stranger to the emergency room. John had been training him for a few years now and had taken him on the occasional hunt; and Dean was an active boy who had been known to seek his adventures in some chancy ways and would stand up to a bully twice his size (or bigger) if necessary. He'd endured bumps and bruises and scratches and stitches – this wasn't even the first time he had been knocked unconscious (though it had been the longest).

Even taking all of this into consideration, it was difficult for both father and little brother to see Dean this way. The cuts had been cleaned and some were held together with butterfly bandages – many had begun to bruise. Under the colorful array was a pallid complexion and dull, barely focused hazel eyes.

John and Sammy stayed with Dean for the observation period, during which Dean slept a little, asked Sammy if he was OK more than a dozen times (having forgotten that he had already asked), asked John if they could paint his room because he didn't like white (which may have been a little funny if Dean had been joking), and sung random songs under his breath without realizing that he was doing so aloud.

Sammy couldn't decide if he should laugh or cry again. His big brother got his head broken and it was all Sammy's fault. He was the one that should've been talking nonsense and complaining about a headache. He was the one that the beetle gave the omen to (whatever that meant) – so the bad luck should've hit him. But, Dean had always been the one who kept him safe. Sure, he knew Daddy was strong and powerful and would keep all the really bad things away from them (kinda like Superman), but Dean was the one who stood right beside Sammy like a shield for anything that might slip through Daddy's defenses. Daddy was a bit larger than life for four-year-old Sammy, but Dean was his own personal hero (his Batman) and if Dean couldn't stop the bad luck from coming, he'd take it on himself so Sammy didn't have to.


	3. October 1989

2

_October 1989_

Just over a month ago, Sammy would have said that seven was the _bestest_ age to be. Ever since Dean had started school, Sammy wanted to go too – not just to school, but to his big brother's class. He hated to be stuck with a babysitter. Especially the babysitters that Daddy was able to afford because they were never any fun. He would practically run from the sitter's house into Dean's arms (since Dean was always the one to come and get him) and drag his big brother down the sidewalk just to get away.

When Dean began bringing some of his workbooks home with him (having to explain the concept of _homework_ to his baby brother), Sammy asked to have some 'signments as well. Dean had already taught Sammy to read and getting a spare copy of his worksheets was never a problem (in fact, Dean's teacher thought it was cute and offered to 'grade' some of the papers for Sam, each complete with stickers and stamps proclaiming a job well done).

There were many afternoons that John would come home and find his boys, not watching cartoons like normal children their ages, but both doing homework at the table. Truth be told, Sammy usually did pretty well with the assignments – work meant for a kid four years ahead of him. They were all happy: Sammy was happy to spend the time with his big brother, Dean was happy because it made watching after his little brother easier, John was happy because it kept the boys occupied and out of trouble.

Then, they moved (again). The last hunt was complete and a new hunt was awaiting John in a new town several states away. Luckily for Dean, they had stayed long enough for him to finish out the school year. Sammy had turned seven not long before that and knew, from the moment he blew out his candles (all in one breath!), that next school year would be fantastic.

Now, however, he was having his doubts. He had been so excited to finally start school (as pre-school and kindergarten were not part of the Winchester curriculum) but now he was feeling differently. Dean had tried to warn him that school was not all fun and games, but as Sammy enjoyed the work part, he thought that everything would be fine. He couldn't have been more mistaken.

Everything he said and everything he did was apparently wrong. Sure, Miss Carol (his teacher) seemed to like him well enough, though she was nothing like Dean's last teacher had been. He had met Mrs. Baker on Dean's last day and she was young and beautiful and had the warmest smile Sammy had ever seen. Miss Carol had grey hair, wore purple every day, and had a hairy mole on her chin.

But, his teacher wasn't the problem. The kids in Sammy's class were cruel. They all knew each other from kindergarten and many lived on the same block, and no one wanted to be friends with the new kid. Sammy felt more miserably alone than when old Mrs. Logan was his babysitter and he had to sit on a plastic and doily covered chair in the corner while she watched her _stories_ on television.

The absolute worst part, however, was that Dean's classroom was on one end of the second floor while Sammy's was on the opposite end of the first, ensuring that they would never _accidentally_ run into one another in the halls. After a month of this torture, Sammy was sure that he couldn't possibly be more miserable than he already was.

One cool October morning, Miss Carol told the class that there would be a fire drill at the end of the day. She went over the rules of the drill: there was to be no talking, everyone would stand and line up at the front of the room calmly, and then walk (never run!) to their designated area in the parking lot. She also pulled down the laminated school map from the wall and pointed out their path, though it was already marked out with heavy red arrows from the 'you are here' box to the front entrance of the school.

The rest of the school day went on as usual – English, math, science, all the classes were the same. Really, the only difference was the steadily increasing buzz of energy Sammy felt coming from his classmates. They seemed to think that _fire drill_ was code for _extra recess_ from what he could interpret from their whisperings.

However, as his classmates grew more restless with excitement, Sammy was becoming more and more anxious. Drill or not, the idea of a fire burning so close to him was enough to make breathing difficult, as if the smoke was already in the air. Fire was not something the Winchesters took lightly. In fact, truth be told, Sammy had a slight case of pyrophobia.

One of his earliest memories, one of the earliest stories he could remember, was the one about his mother. Sammy was only six months old when Mary Winchester was taken (_taken_, Dean told him, _we don't say died or killed about Mom – especially in front of Dad_) so, of course, he didn't actually remember her as a real, living person. To Sam, Mary was a fairy tale, almost mythical. He knew the story by heart, the reason Daddy _had_ to hunt, and he knew that she died (while protecting her baby) and was consumed by an unearthly fire.

So, as his classmates fidgeted and the seconds ticked by on the ever-loudening clock at the front of the classroom, Sammy felt more and more panicked, frightened, terrified. He was nearly to the point of hyperventilating when the solution, the very simple solution, struck him.

Sammy had to find Dean. Dean would know how to fix... whatever was wrong. Dean can fix anything. Dean can fix everything. He had to find Dean now!

But, before Sammy could put his plan into action, the fire alarm sounded and the students were told to line up at the front of the room in an orderly fashion. It became impossible to move quickly with his classmates in his path. But, once Sammy was at the doorway, he broke from his class (moving in the opposite direction, right under the grasp of Miss Carol) and began running and yelling for Dean.

Much to his dismay, the halls were packed with bodies and Sammy was a very small fish attempting to swim upstream. Frantically looking around for an opening, he found a clear route towards his right. There was a ladder, left by a custodian who had been repairing one of the many loudspeakers in the hallway, propped against the wall leaving a gap just wide enough for a small first-grader to fit through.

Sammy weaved his way through the larger students and made it to the ladder, finally progressing forward (or possibly backward). He yelled for his brother again and was about to try and squeeze through a group of older girls when a tall man, a teacher Sammy had seen in the hallway once or twice, caught him by the back of the collar. The man effectively spun Sam around and escorted the small boy out of the building – but not before Sammy let out one more desperate scream for his brother at the door.

Moments later, he was sitting (deposited by the man who barely gave him a glance) on a parking block next to Miss Carol – who had hugged him and Sammy was sure he would soon be made fun of for that. His face was flushed, not from embarrassment (though that would come later), but from the anger mixed with fear he was feeling. He knew the tears were still sliding from his eyes as sure as he knew that there was no way that he could stop them.

Sammy kept his focus on the front doors of the school, where all of the students were exiting for the fire drill – all of the students except his big brother. He knew there was no real fire (though the smell of smoky grilled hamburgers from the fast food place across the street didn't help) but that didn't stop the rising panic he felt as each new face that came from the school did _not_ belong to Dean.

Once again, Sammy was close to taking matters into his own hands when, once again, he was but a second too late. He had just decided to stand (and then go in and find Dean) when the school nurse walked up to Miss Carol. The woman had intended to talk to the teacher alone, but Sam would not be pushed aside.

The nurse told them that Dean was in her office. He was OK (which is always the first thing an adult says when the situation is quite less than OK), but there was an accident. Apparently, as Dean's class was taking their turn at the stairwell during the fire drill, _something_ made Dean lose his concentration, causing him to miss the top step. According to Penelope Weaver, who was standing behind him, Dean tried to catch himself but failed, and proceeded to fall, hitting each of the concrete stairs. While he didn't break or sprain anything (in fact, there was no bloodshed at all), the result of the fall was a myriad of painful looking bruises, and there was no doubt that Dean would be stiff and sore for quite a while.


	4. December 1991

3

_December, 1991_

Sam was in a bad mood, which even he was willing to admit was a more and more common thing these days. The Winchesters had recently moved and Sam, once again, found himself at a new school. He was actually getting used to his nomadic existence, but that didn't mean he liked it. Especially since Sam had really liked the last place they lived and had made a few really close friends.

But now, he was in a new school in a new town that either had more kids than average or smaller buildings than average – because, although he and his brother were in the same school building in the last town, Sam was in the gold brick grade school and his brother Dean was in the red brick middle school a few blocks away.

And so, here Sam sat, on the steps in front of his school, waiting for his brother. He honestly felt that nine was perfectly old enough to walk _home_ (motel) on his own, but as usual Dad didn't see it that way – not even when Sam brought up the argument that Dean's school let out fifteen minutes after his _and_ that walking to Sam's school made Dean's trip even longer since it was in the opposite direction of the motel (Sam knew because they passed the middle school on the walk home and Dean had pointed it out to him). They were good arguments – but, apparently, not good enough.

By nine, Sam had come to understand that there were certain _givens_ in life, certain things that would always remain the same. Wanna short list? 1) Mom was never coming back. 2) Dad would keep hunting until he found and killed the thing that took her from them. 3) Dean would always take care of Sam (more than Dad would). 4) Sam would always be the baby in the family and therefore would never be treated like anything else. But, just because they were _givens_ that still didn't mean he had to like them.

So Sam sat and waited (knowing full-well that Dad had some sort of special internal radar that alerted him to any disobedience – Sam honestly didn't know how the man did it) and waited and waited. The day was dreary, matching his mood. There were yellow leaves stuck all over the ground with rainy glue and the sky was grey with clouds, the sun never even trying to poke through. It was cool but not cold, which Sam was thankful for, but it was still miserable.

To make things worse, one of the school buses seemed to be running late and therefore a dozen or more kids were lined up and waiting for their ride. The company would have made Sam feel better if they were sharing his foul mood (yes, misery does indeed love company). But, no, they were all cheerfully talking about their plans for the holidays: finally the last day of school got here, no homework for three weeks, going to Grandma's to make gingerbread cookies, going skiing with the whole family, Christmas tree's so big that Dad had to cut some of the branches off, and on and on and on.

Sam felt like his head would explode. He had never been good at waiting, and he had never been good at listening to others talk about their nice and normal (and fun) lives while he was stuck with his crappy existence. It was either scream or move around to ease some of the tension he felt, or risk grinding his teeth into rubble from clenching his jaw so hard.

And, because Sam did not like to make a fool of himself (so no screaming) and he valued his teeth, the only viable option was to get up from the cold stone step and move around. Of course, pacing and sudden bouts of calisthenics would also fall into the 'making a fool of himself' range, so instead Sam looked down the sidewalk - for possibly the hundredth time! - in the hopes of seeing his brother.

At the edge of the steps, however, just as Sam was about to reach the sidewalk, a quick little ball of fur with long ears, practically ran under his foot. It took him a moment to catch his breath and balance, but was very proud of himself for not yelping or jumping a mile in the air (again with that _foolish_ thing). Sam shook his head and smiled to himself, then stepped forward again to resume his look-out.

Then he felt someone watching him – you don't live your whole life with John Winchester and _not_ pick up a thing or two. He looked up and met the stare of a slightly larger boy from the bus line. As soon as the eye contact was made, the other boy loudly ordered Sam not to come any closer to him. The rest of the line turned to see what the fuss was about as the boy went on to explain that a hare crossing your path is an omen of disaster.

Well, that was all it took – it was just like old Mrs. Logan had told him once about one of the characters in her _stories_ who was apparently someone's evil twin or something. She told him that it only takes one rotten apple to spoil the pie. Actually, her version was something about an old banana and a strawberry tart. Sam would have laughed at the memory if he wasn't busy turning red from embarrassment.

He hated it when the other kids at school talked about him or looked at him like he was less-than-ordinary. Being the perpetual new kid was bad enough without being the weird new kid. But, what was done was done, and all the kids in line were either talking of the possible destruction that was waiting for him or arguing about the validity of the superstition – many discussions involving which animal is actually bad luck, if color matters, and whether time of day affects anything.

Right about now, Sam hated his brother. Hated him for being late (probably got into trouble), which made him wait, which caused the kids to start talking about him, which was too much for Sam – it was all he could do to keep the tears from falling. He started to walk away so that the bus kids wouldn't soon think of him as the weird, crybaby, new kid. He was crossing the street when the kids started yelling to him – which made his eyes threaten even more tears, which in turn made him hate his brother even more.

The idea of coming up with a way to retaliate and make his brother feel as awful as he did (maybe even get him in trouble with Dad) had just entered Sam's mind when he felt a strong and sudden shove against his back. The abrupt displacement must have knocked Sam's brain around a bit because he couldn't make sense of the sounds he was hearing – horn blaring, tires screeching, people screaming, and a short series of thumps – as his body fell forward.

When he heard someone shout _Call 911!_, Sam broke out of his haze (when did he hit the ground?) and looked around. There was a sporty red car and a worried driver saying something about the leaves and wet pavement and _tried to stop_. There was a teacher with a cell phone telling someone her location. There was a the tardy bus driver trying to keep the bus kids back. There was even a girl crying onto her friend's shoulder and a boy puking in the bushes in front of the school.

And when Sam's eyes finally made their way down to the apparent attraction that everyone had circled around, he saw Dean. His big brother was lying on the ground in front of the car (and Sam couldn't help but notice that his own backpack, that he dropped when he was shoved, was near his brother and nearly under the car's front tire). Dean was lying on his back, eyes open wide, teeth clenched, breathing hard.

Sam crawled over towards him and saw that Dean's right leg was at an angle that no leg should ever be in. Dean was looking (probably without really seeing) straight up at the sky and Sam moved so that his face was directly above his brother's. The tears Sam had been holding back were now beyond his control, one even rolled down his cheek in such a way as to splash against his brother's face.

Dean looked up at his little brother and Sam could see the way his eyes traveled around and searched for injury. He seemed to relax when Sam passed the test but still asked if his brother was OK.

Sam began sobbing, trying to tell Dean that he was the hurt one and not to worry about Sam and other random words of apology and anguish. Though none of it came out intelligible, Dean still somehow understood him and smiled and told him that he was fine, would be fine. Then, as if Sam had just awoken from a nightmare rather than sitting in the middle of the street with his brother, Dean pulled Sam down to him and held out his arm – the invitation for Sam to snuggle into his brother's side (though it was the left side today instead of the usual right) and be comforted.

Sam hesitated for only a moment, feeling guilty that his injured brother was consoling him, before making a pillow of Dean's arm. By the time the ambulance arrived, Sam's tears were only memories on his chapped cheeks, leaving him with just the occasional sniffle. Before the EMTs put Dean on the stretcher, he looked over at Sam (pleading with his eyes for his little brother to come with him, stay within his sight) and told him that Dad was probably going to be _pissed_.


	5. March 1992

4

_March, 1992_

The weather had gotten warmer, Dean had recently gotten the cast off of his leg, and Dad had gotten a solid lead on the spirit he was tracking. All-in-all, the day was shaping up quite nicely. Sam was nearly finished with his classes for the day and was looking forward to the evening's events. Dad had told him that he could camp out in Joey's backyard with some of the other boys in his class while he and Dean finished off the ghost of Jebediah Arkly – miser, monster, and local baddie who had been terrorizing the town, off and on, since his death in 1936.

Sam felt like such a normal kid when he hopped into Joey's mom's minivan after school – even more so when Joey's dad helped the boys put up the tent in the backyard and set up their campfire for the hot dog and s'mores feast they would be having. It took all of Sam's concentration not to blurt out things like: I thought the only people who made s'mores were on TV, I can't even remember the last time my family had a back yard to play or camp out in, my dad's idea of camping is throwing a couple of worn sleeping bags inside a protective circle and taking turns keeping watch with a shotgun full of rock salt.

There were five boys camping in all: Joey, Sam, Luke, Will, and Jesse. It was the most friends, not including Dean, Sam had ever had at once. He was glad the other boys were having so much fun too because he didn't think there was any way he could keep the big, giddy smile from his face even if he tried.

Between the five nine-year-olds, a total of sixteen hot dogs were consumed before the boys moved onto making s'mores and telling ghost stories. Joey suggested Sam go first, since he was new and would therefore have a story they hadn't all heard a hundred times before. Telling his story gave Sam a good excuse to be a little slow on the s'mores making – only knowing the exact procedure from some kids' baseball movie he watched recently.

_New Year's Eve, 1969_, Sam began, _Mr. And Mrs. Monroe went out to a big party and left their nine-year-old daughter, Marie, home with a babysitter. Since it was the babysitter's mom who booked the job, the babysitter wasn't that happy about it – having to miss her own party._

_At about 10:00, Tina (the babysitter) told Marie she had to go to bed. Marie argued, but Tina wouldn't give in because she secretly planned to have her boyfriend over after Marie was asleep. Marie was getting ready for bed when she noticed that her locket – the one her grandma just gave her for Christmas – was missing. She searched the house but couldn't find it anywhere._

_Almost an hour later, Tina had had enough and yelled at Marie to just go to bed. Marie started for the stairs when she remembered that she had played in the snow earlier in the afternoon. Seeing that Tina's attention was on the front door, Marie slipped out the back._

_The snow was coming down hard and Marie was only wearing her nightgown and slippers. But, she went on into the large backyard, then into a wooded area that bordered the yard. It was dark since the moon was new – the only light she had to find her way back was the light inside her house. But, what she didn't know was that Tina, thinking Marie had gone to bed, had let her boyfriend in and they turned the house light off so they could make out._

_Mr. and Mrs. Monroe got home pretty late – or, I guess, really early. Mrs. Monroe went straight to bed while Mr. Monroe drove Tina home. When he got back, he assumed that Mrs. Monroe had already checked on Marie and so he went straight to bed, too. Having been out so late the night before, the Monroes slept until almost noon. They were surprised that Marie hadn't woken them up yet. They went to check on their daughter and found that her bed had not been slept in. They searched the house and found the back door unlocked, so they went out and searched the yard and woods._

_The snow had filled in any footprints Marie had made and her parents couldn't find any sign of her. She was never seen again – well, she was never seen _alive_ again. On the next new moon, Mrs. Monroe thought she saw her daughter going into the woods in only her nightgown and slippers. She followed the girl's path into the woods as quickly as she could but could find no sign of her._

_The Monroes moved within the year, as Mr. Monroe was worried about his wife's sanity. But, every new moon after that New Year's Eve in 1969, if you look into the backyard at 11:00 pm, you can see the ghost of Marie wandering into the woods, searching for her lost locket._

Sure, there were parts of the story that Sam had left out – like the numerous accounts of people being found frozen to death (even in the summer) in the woods after nights with a new moon. He also didn't tell his friends about how his dad found the girl's remains and the locket, giving her a proper burial with the treasured item and putting her spirit to rest. Even so, the boys agreed that it was the best _story_ they had ever heard.

Joey had a story for them next. He was especially excited to tell Sam the tale, as Sam was new in town and probably didn't know all about Jebediah Arkly like everyone else – though he had recently gotten some new information that would make the story interesting for everyone. He reached into the bag of marshmallows to start roasting another while telling the story (because it looks really cool when you're telling a scary story and yet look indifferent about it) but found that the bag was empty.

Sam was sitting right in front of the food supply table and so Joey asked him to grab another bag. Sam turned and reached out behind himself, bumping the rickety table in the process, knocking over the bottles of mustard and ketchup and the shakers of salt and pepper. Luke told Sam that it was bad luck to spill salt or pepper, and doubly bad if they were both knocked over at once – to which Joey told them that all Sam had to do to reverse the bad luck was to throw some of the salt over his left shoulder, which Sam did, and Joey went on with his story.

_You might not realize this Sam_, Joey told him, _but this town has its own resident ghost: Jebediah Arkly. _

Sam nodded politely. He didn't want to tell his friends that he probably knew the legend better than any of them. After all, it was all Dad had talked about since they got here. He supposed he could tell them that he had a general idea, but his little voice of reason, which oddly enough sounded like Dean (and wasn't that the scariest thought ever), told him to just shut up and listen.

But luckily, Joey assumed that Sam had already heard _some_ bits and pieces of the story and glossed over the more common knowledge details. After all, Joey wanted to get to the exciting part, too. And, he couldn't tell an old and boring story after Sam's had been so new and cool.

_... Well, here's something that you all probably don't know. Jebediah Arkly was_ not _an only child._ (What, Jesse asked, where did you hear that?) _My cousin told me._ (Where'd she hear it, Will piped in.) _A friend from her class._ (and before Luke could interrupt) _And her friend's mom works for county records. So, if anyone would know, it would be her._

_When Jebediah and his father moved into town – just after Jeb's mom died – everyone thought that it was just the two of them. But, what nobody saw was that there was another boy, Abrahm. You see, he was kept hidden because Abrahm's mother was _not_ Lilian Arkly, but a servant girl's – the girl who cared for Lilian when she first became ill._

_Abrahm was about ten years younger than Jebediah. He was only kept around because his mother had also died – of _unknown_ causes – and to send him away might make the affair come out and Jeb's father, the successful business man that he was, would not allow that to happen for fear of what it might do to his reputation._

_Instead of hiring anyone to care for Abrahm, Jeb was made to do it, as he was the only other person to know of his step-brother's existence. Jeb's father made no attempt to even see his younger son – providing for him financially but not emotionally._

_Now, no one knows this for sure – its only speculation on my cousin's friend's mom's part because there were no public records or anything. But, its her belief that Jebediah hated his brother. He hated the kid because his very existence made his father's betrayal of his mother (who was sick and dying!) real. Then, he hated him more because Jeb now saw his father less and less, due to the man never wanting to be in the same room as Abrahm. And finally, Jeb had to look after his brother, take care of him, be his teacher, and miss out on having friends and a life of his own._

_One day, when Jeb was 23, his father told him that he would be leaving shortly – he had to leave the country on business and would be gone for three months. Then, he just left without further notice. After that, it was just Jebediah and Abrahm in that big house on the hill._

_No one really knows what happened because no one else was there, but there were records that Jebediah – a month after his father left – hired someone to clean the floor of the entryway (and specifically the portion under the stairway balcony) and a chimney sweep to clean out the fireplace on the east side of the house (but not the one on the west)._

Will and Luke both told mild ghost stories (both of which Sam knew to be completely ridiculous, though he didn't say anything more than the necessary 'whoa's at the right times) after that, but the rest of the boys fell asleep before Jesse was even ready to start his tale – their sugar highs (from many, many s'mores) having run out long ago.

But, as often happened, Sam's mind wouldn't allow him to sleep. He knew as well as anyone that even first-hand stories could be unreliable, let alone fourth or fifth-hand. After all, you didn't have to be a Winchester to know that the veracity of the 'my cousin's friend's mom found out something no one else has in over fifty years' tales were hardly dependable. However, what many non-Winchesters believed was pure fantasy, the Winchesters knew as fact.

The same – or similar – could be said for these _crazy_ stories. Even if most of the details were false or embellished, some truths could be gleaned from the tale. Some minuscule hint could be found in the mountain of creativity.

Sam, while his friends snored peacefully within the tent around him, lay awake. He went over the _facts_ in his head. A younger step-brother no one knew about – ten years younger. Could it be true? Who knows what could have been true in those days – certainly not Sam. And, said the voice that sounded like Dean again, people are crazy – they don't follow any set rules or patterns.

So, if it was true, Jebediah murdered his younger brother when he was 23 years old. 23? If he was ten years older... Dean was thirteen. Dean was going to that house. Dean was at that house now.

Sam wanted so desperately to give Dad this new information. Even if it was all made up, it was better to know than not know, right? If only Sam had one of those cool pins like on Star Trek – the ones that you tap and are immediately linked to the person you want to contact – then he could get a hold of Dad (he knew calling from the house wouldn't help since his father was not home, and the Winchesters' use of cell phones was still quite a few years away).

By morning, Sam was tired, his eyes were red and dry, and he was practically shaking – which he told everyone was due to all the sugar from the s'mores. The boys each went to the house, got dressed, and then sat at the kitchen table to eat the plates-full of scrambled eggs Joey's mom had made them before she left the room to answer the telephone.

Sam was still playing with his eats (more than eating), while his friends shoveled their food into their faces at an alarming pace, when Joey's mom came back into the kitchen. While she was making the next round of eggs, she casually told Sam that he would be staying with them a little longer than expected. Joey was ecstatic.

As the other boys were picked up by their moms (each one driving a minivan, Sam realized), Sam moved aside to talk with Joey's mom. He quietly asked her why he was staying – not that he was upset, he just was curious.

The woman gave him a sweet, but pitying smile – it was such a mom smile that Sam wasn't sure how to react to it. She told him that his brother had been in an accident last night, had taken a fall, and needed to be taken to the emergency room.

_But don't worry_, she told him, smiling at him warmly (to try and hide the commiseration) again, _he'll be just fine._

oo0oo

**A/N**: Yep, there's a little problem with my time line here. The movie 'The Sandlot' (from which Sam gets his s'more making knowledge) did not actually come out until 1993, a year after the Friday the 13th in question here. It has always been my thought that Sam got the bulk of his _normal_ world knowledge from television/movies – and watching the s'mores bit in 'The Sandlot' works perfect. So, let's just all pretend that, in the Supernatural universe, the movie came out more than a year before it actually did. Thanks!


	6. August 1993

5

_August, 1993_

Summer – not just summer – mid August. They're in Florida, of all places, in mid August. Worse still, they are in Florida in the god-awful heat and humidity of mid August in a small, cramped motel room whose large, bulky air conditioning unit sputtered its last puff of cool air (most likely) some time during the last decade and windows that had been painted over so many times there would be absolutely no hope (even with all of the tools and weapons the Winchesters own) of prying them open. Sam could not honestly think of a less pleasant situation.

Sam had lived, during his eleven short years of life, in all manner of places and climates. He knew for a fact (well, was pretty sure, anyway) that he had traveled through and/or lived in all 48 of the contiguous United States. He also knew for a fact that there was some truth to the idea of a 'dry heat' being superior to that of heat _plus_ humidity. When the humidity was low – even if it was near 100 degrees (Fahrenheit) – it was still possible to be comfortable. Shade was at least ten degrees cooler and there would often be a refreshing breeze (at least in Sam's memories); plus Sam could still breath, feel the light air moving through his lungs with ease.

Humidity, on the other hand, made the air around him thick and very difficult to pull into his body. Sam often found himself wheezing or panting in areas with high humidity. And, there never seemed to be a breeze at all. No, Sam remembered there being a slight breeze once – it was warm and wet and not at all refreshing. The shade held no respite from the unpleasant weather, instead, conspiring with it to keep him miserable.

And, to add annoyance to aggravation, the motel his father had found actually had a pool – of course, there were more bugs and frogs and types of algae in it than water. Looking over the once white-washed, now moldy and dilapidated picket fence surrounding the pool, Sam groaned inwardly and quickly walked away from the smell of decay before it had time to set permanently on his skin. He was already going to have to peel his sweaty clothes off his back – he didn't need to add the scent of what could possibly be mistaken for a prize-winning science fair project (if the 'caution: no lifeguard on duty' sign wasn't still proudly displayed over what was once a diving board).

Sam slowly made his way back to their room from his trip to the newspaper box. He wasn't sure why Dad had given him the job of gathering the local papers – after all, Sam had been the one staying out of Dad's way. He and Dad had recently been at odds with one another for various reasons, most of which concerned their nomadic existence and Sam's never-ending quest for _normal_. However, as much as Sam would have liked to debate his side of the argument, their current residence (though a very strong point for his position) had zapped most of his energy and he had tried to spend the day being quiet (though, it came off more as whiny) and doing as little as possible.

If anyone needed to release some energy, it was his brother. Dean had gone from his typical cool, calm, and collected persona to practically splitting apart at the seems. Sam knew his big brother had never been comfortable with staying stationary for too long (which is what they had been doing since Dad's current hunt seemed to be going nowhere fast – much like Sam) but, for the last few days, Dean was practically vibrating, much like he had that day a few months back when he had succeeded in drinking two large pots (yes, pots) of coffee and chasing them with a sixteen ounce bag of chocolate-covered espresso beans. What could he say? His brother was never one to back down from a dare – strangely enough, it made Sam kind of proud.

Sam knew things had gotten out of hand when he sarcastically suggested to Dad that they try and find a copy of Wile E. Coyote's Acme catalog and purchase a large hamster wheel with a fan attachment so that Dean's excess energy could be put to good use keeping them cool. Dad had actually laughed a little but Dean, his oddly creative and mechanically inclined older brother, got a certain look in his eyes that made Sam glad that there wasn't a junkyard or flea market nearby.

Sam knocked on the motel room door: tap, tap... tap... tap. Then, turned the handle and walked in, finding Dad grumbling at the little table and Dean kneeling on the floor across the room. Sam handed the newspapers over to Dad and could now see that Dean was picking up Dad's journal – the journal that he could now see had been thrown across the room (most likely the result of a tantrum due to Dad's fowl mood if the chunk of plaster missing from the wall was any indication), causing much of its contents to spill out onto the floor. Whether Dad had told Dean to clean it up or Dean jumped at the opportunity to do _something_ was beyond Sam.

By the time Sam had turned back to Dad, the man already had the three newspapers Sam brought in opened and scattered over one of the beds. His eyes were moving through the stories so quick Sam wasn't sure if he was really reading anything or just searching for some key words. The whole time, Dad's mutterings were growing, nearly growls now. Dean and Sam exchanged a look – the one that meant they both knew that Dad was going to have another bad outburst... and soon.

As a pre-emptive strike, Dean spoke up (which usually only made things worse, Sam thought) and offered to go to the library and research their hunt further. It took a moment for Dad to process the request (and Sam thought that the only reason Dad didn't completely blow up at Dean was because it was such an unusual suggestion), taking a little extra time before muttering something like _if I can't find anything, what makes you think _you_ can_ – but when Dean made it clear that he intended to take Sam along with him, Dad grumbled out the go ahead (then basked in the quiet of their absence).

The library was stuffy with its too-small air conditioner trying its hardest to cool the too-big area, but to Sam and Dean it felt like paradise after the motel room. Strangely enough, Dean suggested that they actually do some research – Sam had assumed the whole idea was just an excuse to get out of the confines of their motel. But, Dean explained that, the sooner they get this hunt over with, the sooner they could get out of Dodge and hopefully go up north to a state where the temperature wouldn't get into triple digits.

Sam couldn't exactly fight that logic, so instead he expounded on the plan and suggested they split up. Dean stayed at the reference desk and looked through old town newspapers to try and find patterns in behavior and location to see if he could pinpoint where the little monsters might be nesting. Sam went in search of mythological texts to get more information on the creatures, as he didn't really know that much about them. He needed more background information, as he was sure he didn't know the whole legend after simply watching an old episode of The Twilight Zone with William Shatner or catching a matinée about a furry little mogwai – no, he wanted to know more about gremlins.

Sam was getting frustrated again. He had been in enough libraries in his life to know where basically everything (in terms of common supernatural-related volumes) was located. But who'd ever heard of a library that didn't use the Dewey Decimal System in their organization? Finally spying a sign that read mythology and philosophy (honestly, who puts those two together?) a few rows ahead, Sam started for the area.

His path led him in front of a smudged window looking out onto a thriving courtyard. He stopped and tried to wipe away the dirt with his hand to get a better look, when a dark mass of feathers flew into the glass right in front of him. He jumped back in surprise just as an old librarian came over to admonish him for banging on the window. Only half listening to her words, Sam mumbled an explanation – _it wasn't me; something flew into the window_. As one, Sam and the small white-haired woman stepped up to the window and looked down to the ground.

Lying in an unmoving heap of beak and feathers was a crow, dead, neck having been broken due to the impact with the thick glass. The old woman shuddered and then turned to stare wide-eyed at Sam, asking why he would do such a thing. He returned her frightened look with one of confusion – the woman obviously thought he had somehow lured the bird to its death.

The woman slowly backed away from Sam, one step at a time, her eyes never leaving him. As she retreated, Sam heard her mumbling some old Cherokee saying: One crow is sorrow, two is mirth, three for a wedding, and four for birth. Then, she quickly scurried through the over-stuffed shelves and out of sight.

Even though Sam could feel the old woman watching from a window when he and Dean left the strange little library, he didn't think much about her cryptic words. After all, when your father is a garage mechanic by day and a demon hunter by night, you tend to get used to seeing and hearing and feeling all sorts of odd things.

However, the slightly cooler feel of the library was just what was needed to refresh Sam from tired and grumpy to his more common argumentative and ill-tempered self. And, the quiet and calm of the motel room (sans sons) was enough to take Dad from grouchy and short-tempered to rejuvenated and demanding. As if the sour but subdued moods due to the high temperature and cramped quarters never existed, Sam and Dad picked up their 24/7 argument where it had left off – in fact, from the intensity of the confrontation, Dean could swear they were now making up for the lost time.

Try as he might, Dean could not make his voice heard over his father or brother's. He tried placing himself in their eye-lines, tried to make them see him, tried to put himself between them – but they simply walked around him, talked over him, ignored that he was still in the room. If Dean wasn't as well-adjusted as he knew he was (really, he was!), he might've found a mirror to look in and make sure he hadn't become invisible. But, he knew that wasn't the case... and he'd stopped checking years ago.

Dean could remember a time when his father and brother had gotten along. They had once been _Daddy_ and _Sammy_, and talked (not yelled) and joked and laughed with one another. He had almost caught a glimpse of that earlier when Sam made his joke and Dad laughed. Who cares if Dean was the one being mocked? It made him happy, brought a sparkle to his eye, to see the two people he cared about most in the world share a laugh. Hey, he'd even be willing to try and find such a contraption right now if it would bring those two together again.

And that strange path of cognitive process was what brought Dean to his conclusion: fix their air conditioner. Yes, this twisting and turning path was also the reason he never tried to explain his actions to anyone.

He left, rummaged through the trunk of Dad's Impala, found his make-shift tool box, and re-entered the motel room – all the while knowing that he hadn't been missed (they didn't even notice his absence). But, Dean liked fixing things – he could fix this.

He blew the dust off the top of the machine, made sure it was turned off, and unplugged it from the wall socket. Hey, he wasn't stupid. Then, he pulled out one of his mis-matched screwdrivers and began the process of opening up the behemoth in front of him. As he unscrewed the last screw of the front panel, the panel and several small brown-grey creatures with thickset pincer-like hands scampered out of the air conditioner. They were quite heavy despite their small size and Dean found himself pinned to the ground with his feet underneath him and the metal panel topped with a number of gremlins resting on his chest.

The commotion was enough to garner Dad and Sam's attention, causing both to stop yelling at the other and turn towards Dean. Father and son stood frozen to the spot for a moment, surprised by what they saw. However, the stillness was broken by the half-cry/half-growl Dean made when one of the little monsters used his shoulder as a scratching post.

It took only seconds for both Dad and Sam to grab bottles of holy water and spray the nasty things. At first, Sam had been surprised to hear that the holy water would melt them quicker than the wicked witch of the west, but he had kept his thoughts to himself due to the fact that Dean had snuck him in to see the movie only after Sam had begged him for a week and a half to see Gizmo on the big screen – even after Dad had told them both 'no'. What none of the Winchesters knew though was that, while only a few drops were needed to dissolve the critters, their liquefied state was highly acidic.

When Dad was finally able to pull Dean up from the floor, the kid was sporting claw marks and chemical burns that would not be easily explained away. But, Sam was relieved when the man rushed the boys to the nearest emergency room all the same. Sam stayed with Dean while Dad went back to the motel to quickly pack so they could be on the road as soon as possible (he would just have to come back on his own to make sure that there were no more nests around). Dean made some crack to Sam - _when I said I'd rather leave here sooner than later, this wasn't exactly part of my master plan_ – to ease his kid brother's worries while they waited for Dad to return, but Sam remained quiet and introspective.

He was starting to see a kind of pattern forming... he just couldn't put his finger on what it was yet.


	7. May 1994

6

_May, 1994_

Sometimes, Sam just honestly didn't understand his older brother. Didn't Dean want _anything_ for himself? They had both recently begun school at Monongah Junior High – Dean (the upper class man) in ninth grade and Sam (bottom of the food chain) in sixth. And, while Sam had made a couple of friends of his own, it was hard to see his brother in the halls and not notice that almost everyone noticed _him_. Though it seemed Dean didn't take notice.

Sure, Sam had had a few years to get used to the idea – after all, Dean had been turning heads for as long as Sam could remember. Of course when he was younger, Dean turned the heads of teachers and faculty – some just wanted to _reach_ the poor young boy who had switched schools more than an army brat they had ever known, some disliked him because of his attitude, and the rest wanted to comfort him to make up for the teachers that didn't like him.

Then, in the last few years, Sam saw that it wasn't only the adults who took notice of his brother. Every new school meant new gossip about the _new guy_. While Sam often found himself on the outer edges of social groups (hoping someone would look over and ask him to join them), Dean attracted attention by simply being there and his fellow students were nearly stepping over one another to be the first to meet him. And Dean either didn't recognize the recognition or (more likely) just didn't care. It was really unfair!

Case in point: the Monongah High School (yes, _high_ school) spring dance was tonight. Sam happened to know that Dean had been asked by several sophomores, a handful of juniors, and even a few seniors to be their date to the dance. Sam wanted to be angry or jealous about his brother's effortless popularity. But, come on! It was really pretty cool.

However, Sam was apparently more upset than Dean about Dad's decision that their current hunt had to go down tonight. Sure, Dean's explanation about it being safer with most of the local kids at the dance and out of the way (as in, not at the local hang-out/make-out spot) made sense, but all Sam had said was that the 'kids' were all older than Dean and they were still allowed to just be kids. He honestly hadn't meant to snap at his brother. There was just a pattern of behavior he was setting up and Sam didn't want to have to sacrifice his own future school dances and activities and _normal_ when the opportunities arose.

But, that argument took place on Sunday. The word quickly spread through the junior high – and subsequently the high school – that Dean would be unable to attend the spring dance. Sam had no idea what form of communication/gossip this town used and was simply amazed that the situation was common knowledge before the 3:00 bell on Monday.

The rest of the week was spent gathering any extra information for the hunt, securing weapons, and coming up with a plan of attack. They were up against a horde of kobolds, which Sam soon found out was something between a goblin and a gnome. They were known to haunt underground places, most commonly mines, and Dad had found the specific cave they inhabited.

It was just after dinner on Friday night when they began packing their supplies. There were plenty of fusees, which immobilized the quick little chameleons, and buckshot covered in silver (as pure silver wasn't necessary so why waste the money) to kill them. They were about to head for the car when Sam slung his bag over his shoulder and knocked one of the unattractive landscape portraits from the motel wall, which hit the floor and shattered the (surprisingly) glass front.

Dad barely paused in his path out the door to grumble something about costing them extra money in damages and how Sam needed to be more careful. Dean was the one who came over to make sure Sam hadn't been cut by any of the glass, telling him that he would clean it up later and the motel wouldn't even know the difference. Sam briefly hesitated to wonder if breaking glass was the same as breaking a mirror, but Dad yelled at him to hurry up and get in the car before he could even complete the thought.

They reached the caves quickly and quietly entered through the half boarded up opening which Dean had found a week or two ago (and John had decided he really didn't want to know how or why Dean found it). Dad had gone over the plan – again! - in the car and so, at the first fork, they split up – John going to the left; Dean and Sam going to the right.

Every path they took looked the same to Sam. He had studied the maps of the caves Dad had given them, but was soon feeling lost and disoriented. He stayed close to his brother, who had seemed to only glance over the maps (even Dad looked over them more than Dean had), and yet was somehow able to mentally mark their path.

With absolutely no true light (from the sun or the moon) filtering into the cave, Sam had no idea how long they had been walking. And because he couldn't tell one path from the next, he didn't have a clue as to how far they had gone. He was just wishing (and not for the first time) that he owned a working watch when he was suddenly hit with the inexplicable feeling that they were being watched.

He stopped and reached out to grab Dean's arm, not wanting to lose contact with his brother (and consequently end up lost). Without a word between them, both brothers pointed their flashlights to the ground and began silently scanning the upper walls and ceiling. They stood back to back and kept their eyes trained, strained, to catch sight of movement or the yellowy glow of the kobolds' eyes. But there was nothing – nothing accept the goosebumps growing on Sam's arms and the sudden cold he felt in the pit of his stomach.

He was starting think he had imaged the feeling and turned to tell Dean just that, when the soft sound of loose dirt and small pebbles began scratching and rolling down the cave walls. Sam spun back around frantically to find where the echoing sound was originating, but couldn't see or hear anything specific. Until his brother yelled out his name.

At the call from Dean, Sam began to turn to look at his big brother once more, only to be shoved backward. Before Sam could get angry at the abuse, he saw large rocks come crashing down in front of him – down right on the spot he had just been standing. He blinked and coughed away the dust and debris to find a thick newly-formed wall between him and his brother. At least he hoped it was _between_ them.

Panicking, Sam stood up (a bit more wobbly than he would have liked) and reached out to the wall. He knew that he couldn't just start taking rocks away – he would likely cause more of a cave-in than there already was. He called out for Dean but got no answer. All he could hear was his own rapid, frightened breathing and low, gravelly laughter – inhuman laughter that caused him to panic even further.

He put his ear against the wall and yelled for his big brother again. Finally, he heard a muffled answer. Dean's voice was weak, and Sam really hoped that that was due to the wall between him and not because his brother was badly hurt. Then, hearing more laughter (was it louder this time?), Sam yelped in surprise.

Even through a wall of rocks, his older brother seemed to instinctively know what was causing Sam's anxiety. Dean called out as loud as he was able for Sam to shine his flashlight around the ceiling of the cave. Sam did as he was told and was both relieved and creeped out when the trick worked. Relieved because it had caused the kobolds to retreat (rather than anesthetize them as fire would); creeped out because Sam just got his first look at the little gnomes – wrinkled grey skin (as if made from rock) and pale yellow luminescent eyes.

Realizing that Dean was calling out to him again, he turned his attention back to the rock wall. Sam asked if he could remove any of the rocks from his side but unfortunately, Dean was stuck – and Sam needed to get to Dad. Before his little brother had a chance to worry again, Dean gave him directions.

Sam listened to his brother carefully, following his instructions completely (which only seemed to work when Sam was really frightened these days). Dean told him which turns to take and, if all else failed (which meant _if he couldn't find Dad_), to get out of the cave and wait for Dad at the entrance. And, if Sam heard the kobolds again, or felt as he was being watched, shine his flashlight round the area. _Do_ not _try and take them out yourself Sammy_!

Sam had thankfully not felt the kobolds' presence while looking for his father. Once he located Dad (in what seemed to be _hours_ later), he quickly explained what had happened. Dad led them bad to the original fork in the path, practically running all the way there. He started down the boys' route slowly – after all, he had looked at their route on the map but focused on his own so as not to get lost. A cave in was definitely not a part of his plan.

Between the two of them, using both their memories of the old mine map and the trail left by Dean and Sam, they got to a spot that Sam recognized. The triumph was short-lived, however, as Sam began having the same eerie feeling of being watched. Once again, he stopped moving, pointed his flashlight to the ground, and grabbed Dad's arm.

John was about to yell at the boy for stopping but then heard the almost-whispered, raspy laughter above him. He quickly pulled out one of the fusees and ignited it, lighting the cave in bright red fire. He waved the flare around quickly to cover as much surface area as possible, then dropped the still-burning light and pulled out his gun.

If Sam had been creeped out before, he was absolutely spooked now. Looking around, he found yellow eyes everywhere. Before his dad had the chance to reprimand him for freezing up, Sam pulled out his own gun and began to take careful aim. Wordlessly (as if he was still paired with his brother) Sam and John took turns lighting up their fusees as the previous one burned out. Sam didn't realize that there would be so many creatures in the horde, or that they would be so small – they looked just like average-sized rocks, only (on closer inspection) with eyes and short appendages.

After what Sam was sure had been hours, all of the kobolds they had found had been disposed of. They walked the short distance to the new wall, where Dad immediately called out for Dean. Three yells – all unanswered.

Dad began giving Sam orders, which Sam actually obeyed. Whether it was the slightly higher pitch in Dad's voice, the fear Sam was experiencing, the fact that Sam had no idea which rocks to move first, or a combination of the three – John and Sam worked steadily, as fast as they dared, to dismantle the kobold-made wall.

At the first sight of Dean, John and Sam both took a deep breath. Sam, being the smaller (therefore, lighter) of the two, scrambled over the rocks covering most of the left half of his brother's body and felt for a pulse. When he nearly giggled in relief, John let out his breath and began working again – all the while talking to Dean to try and wake the boy up.

Dean was semi-conscious by the time they had completely uncovered him. John helped him stand up but it was clear that his ankle was either badly sprained or broken, not to mention the various other bruises and gashes he had received from the falling rocks.

Sam pulled his brother's left arm over his own right shoulder and made himself a human crutch – making himself feel only slightly better, useful. They slowly made their way to the cave entrance, having to stop only once to clean up another small batch of kobolds that had strayed from the horde.

As they left the cave, Sam made a mental note to check on the superstitious repercussions of breaking the glass in a picture frame. He was really hoping that it didn't give him seven years bad luck – he didn't think Dean would survive.


	8. January 1995

**A/N:** For those of you who enjoy the whole 'hurt-Dean' scenario, this chapter may be a little disappointing (but take heart - its short!). But, I felt the need to change things up at this point... after all, I don't want to bore anyone. So, here is the (short!) chapter that was thrown in just for fun... let's call it _comic relief_. Hope you like it!

* * *

7

_January, 1995_

Eeyore... Grumpy Smurf... Oscar the Grouch... Sam Winchester...

No, Sam's current peer group was not exactly one he would have chosen... given a choice... which, apparently, he wasn't. He was grumpy and grouchy and he couldn't seem to _not_ be.

He rolled over in his bed to face the window – another dreary winter morning in another gloomy town. And though sometimes he wondered if he had a touch of Seasonal Affective Disorder, he was pretty sure the weather had nothing to do with his mood. After all, yesterday was sunny... the day before was pretty nice, too. And Sam's bad mood had persisted all week.

He groaned at the memory and threw his arm over his face to block out... everything. He could hear his brother singing – cheerfully! - as he made breakfast in the kitchen. From the smell, Sam could tell that the normal bowl of cereal would not be in store for him this morning. No, Dean was _making_ something – he could smell brown sugar and cinnamon, and it smelled wonderful. The smell alone would usually have Sam up and out of bed and dressed and at the kitchen table in mere moments – but today he couldn't force himself out of bed.

Dean had been trying all week to cheer him up...

**Monday**: _Hey, we seemed to have missed the snow that was coming our way – lucky for you, huh? _You _like school!_

**Tuesday**: _Wow Sam! Another A... that's great! And wasn't this the test that was worth 2/3s of your final grade?_

**Wednesday**: _So, how do you like having your own room, Sammy? Must be nice to have a quiet place to do your homework and just relax._

**Thursday**: _Study group after school? No problem. I'll wait for you and then we can head over to the pizza place afterwards. You can ask your study-buddies to go... as long as they buy their own food._

And now it was Friday and Dean was making him breakfast that involved more than just two steps: pour cereal in bowl, add milk. But, try as he might, Sam could not muster up any enthusiasm. And worst of all, there was no reason Sam could come up with to be in such a funk.

And he felt bad for his rotten attitude. Really he did. But, whenever he opened his mouth, out popped rude comments or sarcastic retorts – without his intension or permission. He found it best to just keep his mouth shut, which worked at school... but at home, Dean was doing anything and everything he could think of to erase Sam's sullenness. And all Sam could do was shut his brother out or insult him.

It was just a good thing that Dad was on a hunt. If Dad had been home... well, trying to imagine what he would have done about/to Sam was about the least pleasant way he could think of to pass the time. But that was another thing – if anyone had the right to be moody right now it was Dean. Not only had he been left behind (as the hunt was delayed and school started back up again after the holiday break), but Dean was stuck without an adult around to (legally) practice for his up-coming driving test... not that he really needed it, as he had had a fake license for more than a year for those 'just in case' times.

_'Morning Sunshine_!

Dean's up-beat and well-intentioned voice broke into Sam's melancholy as the older brother entered the bedroom. Sam grumbled an unintelligible response from behind the arm still covering his face but Dean carried on, telling his little brother to hurry up and get to the kitchen before his French toast and mushroom and mozzarella omelet got cold. Arg! Sam didn't deserve this – didn't deserve all of Dean's efforts (which now included making his favorite breakfast items) efforts to make him feel better.

_Well, there's your problem, Sammy_.

Dean told him, only marginally serious, but without real ridicule, as Sam crawled slowly out of bed. Sam simply gave a huffy 'huh?' and Dean continued.

_You're getting out on the wrong side of the bed. You're supposed to get out of bed on the same side that you got in on or you're bound to have bad luck, Sammy._

Sam clamped his mouth shut so he wouldn't give voice to his thoughts: that that was the stupidest thing he had ever heard... even coming from his brother's mouth. No, he definitely didn't want to say that. But, while passing Dean at the doorway, he did complain about the ever-present use of his childhood nickname.

_Dean_, please, _stop calling me Sammy_!

Dean just allowed his brother passage without his smile even faltering. But he did answer...

_Sure thing... Shorty_.

oo0oo

**_note_:** Dean proceeded to call Sam 'Shorty' for over a year. Then, at around the time of Sam's fourteenth birthday, he hit growth spurt after growth sport... like they were going out of style. Before Sam was fifteen, he had nearly matched Dean's height – and Dean went back to calling him 'Sammy'.

By sixteen, Sam had grown taller (much taller) than Dean... even surpassing Dad. Dean, meanwhile, had stopped growing all together by _his_ sixteenth birthday (in January, 1995).


	9. Author's Note

**A/N:** OK, so here's the deal folks... This story was originally written for Friday the 13th (big surprise). The outline was simple – 13 little tidbits showing various Friday the 13ths through the years, where Sam stumbles upon some bad luck superstition and Dean ends up facing the consequences. Yeah, it sounded simple enough to me, too.

However, I found that I had some trouble in the drabble department – mainly that I seem to have issues keeping my stories short, sweet, and to the point. The result was a lot of extra _stuff_ that ended up being cut out and left over. And, pack rat that I am, I saved the extras and then offered them up for further insight into the make believe past of the Winchesters.

All fine and good except for one thing... I finally got into the swing of writing compact little tidbits! I know, I know; I'm as shocked as anyone. But, be that as it may, tidbits 8 through 12 are all just as I wanted them with no further details needed. And, the epilogue of sorts (part 13) is pretty much the open-ended _ending_ I was aiming for.

Yet, I still feel guilty and only half finished. So, here's my solution... or maybe kind of a consolation prize. Since I never gave a story for what happened after Sam opened his umbrella inside his apartment, I have been struggling through to create one. The hunt was intended to remain a mystery to Sam, but I think that the new story covers that and fits in with canon events.

So, without further ado, here is the last installment. It won't be a grand finale of anything, but hopefully it will keep you entertained (and willing to read my future fics).

Thank you for your patience, Relativty1953

PS- while I usually try and use an actual urban legend or myth in my fics, I couldn't find one that fit the bill here. So, please don't try and look this one up... it exists only in my imagination.


	10. May 2005

_**May, 2005**_

"Sam!" Jessica yells at him with no real malice. "You can't open that umbrella inside."

"Why not? It's raining."

"Yes, but it's bad luck to open an umbrella inside the house. You have to wait until you're outside."

"First of all," he tells her with a smile that shows his dimples, "this is an apartment, not a house – so the rules are probably different. Second, there is no porch or awning out there. If I wait to open the umbrella outside, I will already be wet."

"So, bad luck doesn't bother you?"

"Jess, bad luck has never affected me."

**oo0oo**

_an excerpt from the journal of John Winchester_

13-May, 2005: I was wrong. I thought I knew what we were hunting. All of the research and interviews led me to believe that we were after the spirits of two teenage girls, Rachel Hart and Emily Horner. Rachel was crowned May Queen at the local festival last year and her best friend Emily was a part of her court. After the crowing, the girls had gone to a friend's party – where they had both been drinking – and Rachel lost control of the her car on the drive home. Both girls were killed instantly.

In the weeks leading up to this year's May festival, all of the girls in the running for Queen have each been hurt; one was even killed. According to Regen Tod, last year's runner-up for Queen (later crowned after Rachel's death), the girl who was attacked was always the one in the lead for May Queen. The order of the incidents made it an open and shut case for me.

_I had been so sure that I was right._

Dean had been quiet on this one. Well, Dean is often quiet – except when there is a pretty girl or an authority figure around. But this was a different sort of quiet. A thinking quiet. For as much as he would proclaim that it was his brother who was the 'smart one', Dean has always looked at a hunt the way a normal person would look at a puzzle – he likes to figure them out in all aspects. Even more so since Sammy left.

I knew that Dean had been worried, increasingly concerned about his brother's absence and the hole it left in our unit, and that's the reason for all the extra thinking and analysis. But while I can rationalize it in my head, I can't help but get defensive on the outside. Questioning my abilities was Sammy's department – and it wasn't an admirable trait. Now that Sammy is gone, Dean seems to have taken over that function. I can't help but feel a little disheartened by his insubordination.

After our first few hunts without Sammy – hunts in which I had to reprimand Dean, make it clear that I will not tolerate any disrespect to my authority – I noticed a change in him. He is now and has always been a brilliant hunter, but it was if the fire in his eyes had died and been replaced with almost robotic actions. And for a boy – a man – so animated, it was a sad descent.

However, no sooner had I revealed our plan of attack – a simple salt and burn of the two girls' bodies, I noticed something change in his expression. In retrospect, I can see it was doubt, but at the time I only saw it as insolence. I held my tongue, though I'm sure a growl escaped my throat, and left to discover which cemetery the girls had been buried in.

When I returned, I found Dean looking through my research notes. I was furious – he had never felt the need to double-check me before (at least I didn't think he had). He tried to explain...

_Dad, did you notice that each of the attacks happened while it was raining? And no one saw anyone or anything out of the ordinary... And, the night of Rachel and Emily's car accident – it was pouring._

_And what does that matter, Dean? The forecast is hardly important here. So, the weather was bad – so what? Its just a coincidence!_

_I didn't think Winchesters believed in coincidences... _(muttered)

_What? Did you say something Dean? If you have something to say to me... about my ability to do my job, why don't you be a man and say it to my face? Or better yet... just follow your brother's lead and go AWOL!_

And that was it. That's all it took – one hint of disappointment and Dean fell back in line with a _yes sir_ and an extinguished fire. I told myself that the take was worth the give.

We went to the graveyard the following morning to locate the girls' graves and do a little recon – Dean's suggestion. After all, he told me, 1) why waste the daytime hours, 2) tombstones are easier to read in the light of day, and 3) we'll get the job done quicker if we already know where to dig and any possible security issues. See? Smart boy.

Rachel's grave was easy to spot. It was large and ornate and near the front of the cemetery. It took a little while longer to locate Emily's, and when we found the right row we also found that Emily had a visitor – Regen Tod was standing in front of the grave with a small white bouquet. I sent Dean ahead to verify the grave and to distract Regen (who had yet to meet Dean) while I looked around further.

After the trip to the cemetery, we picked up some burgers for lunch and went back to the motel to compare notes and check our supplies for the salt and burn.

_Report._

_The girl seemed distraught about Emily's death, sir._

_And?_

_She told me she was just paying her respects, that Emily's death was a tragedy. She said that she was an innocent, hence the white flowers. One was a rose, but I'm not sure about the other two._

_Don't really need a floral lesson here Dean._

_Yes sir._

_We have enough lighter fluid, but I think we should stock up on salt for tonight._

_Yes sir... Maybe we should look for water-proof matches as well._

_What?_

_Well, its been overcast all day and it looks like some storm clouds are moving in. I just don't want to be out there with a couple of angry spirits and no way to light up the corpses._

_Fine! Should we also get you a nice pink raincoat and hat? Make sure you won't get wet? Or better yet, you can stay in the car where its safe and warm and dry._

I don't know why I was so quick to put down any suggestion he gave. In fact, when the water-proof matches landed next to the rock salt at the check-out counter, there was a part of me that was happy to see them. Even driving through the steadily increasing rain to the store, the idea of weather-resistant supplies never occurred to me.

By the time we set out for the cemetery that night, the weather had gotten much worse. It was pouring and it looked as if the good townspeople had all decided that they would do better to stay in the warmth of their homes. Really not a bad idea considering the temperature had plummeted. Before we left the car, I told Dean we would be splitting up.

I could see the look he tried to hide. I knew he wanted to suggest we stay together, that we would be safer. I may not be father-of-the-year material, but even I found the look painfully obvious.

_We both know that, once the spirits realize what we are trying to do, they will most likely attack. If we work one grave at a time, that leaves us a pretty big gap between bonfires. And, I don't think the second girl will allow us a time-out while we reorganize ourselves at the second grave._

I went to Rachel's grave and sent Dean on to Emily's, figuring that I would be able to finish before he did and then provide him with some back-up. The rain made the dirt a little heavy but it also loosened it up and made digging generally easier. Surprising myself, I finished unearthing the year-old coffin in less time than usual. Like her headstone, Rachel's casket was highly-decorated. I'm sure the girl's parents thought it was _pretty_, but I was grateful at its inability to withstand the elements and aging.

A couple of well-placed strikes of my shovel was enough to give me my first look at Rachel – the girl was buried in her May Queen crown. I worked fast with the salt and lighter fluid, expecting to meet the late Rachel Hart any moment. But, even as I lit the water-proof match and threw it onto the remains, she never showed. Well, I was never one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

I made my way to Emily's grave, alert to the possibility that Dean had not been as lucky. As I rounded the end of the row, I caught sight of the grave, but I didn't see Dean. I took a cautious glance around the area – it was very difficult to see as it seemed that the rain was coming down even harder (impossible!) here than at Rachel's grave.

As I drew nearer, I could see that Dean had begun to dig the hole but that his shovel, now broken, was laying about five feet away. Again keeping an eye and ear open, shot gun at the ready, I crept towards the open grave. I don't know what made me glance inside – father's instinct, maybe. The hole had been half dug, about three feet deep. And inside, Dean was lying face down in a growing puddle of water.

Stealth be damned, I thought as I shouted to Dean while grabbing the back and arm of his jacket. I pulled him from the grave and checked him for injuries (already knowing that he was breathing – could see the ripples he was making in the puddle). The back of his head was covered in blood and mud. I looked over at the broken shovel and could see why it had broken – someone or something had struck Dean from behind. But how did it get the shovel in the first place?

That's when I noticed the flashlight, also broken, not far from the shovel. I was sure I had all the pieces but before I could put them together, I felt Dean begin to stir in my arms.

_Son? Son, can you hear me?_

_Yeah... (he groaned and then opened his eyes) Ye'sir._

_What happened?_

_Something hit me when I went for my flashlight. I fell... I think... and I think I was hit again..._

The placement was all wrong. Dean's bag was on one side of the grave and the flashlight and shovel on the other. And, if Dean was hit with the shovel, why was the flashlight broken as well?

_Dean, listen to me. Was it Rachel? Or Emily? Did you see them?_

_Didn't see anyone..._

He started to draw himself up – which was good. We needed to get this over with before Emily came back for round two. I hopped into the hole and began shoveling quickly. Dean slowly made his way to his bag and pulled out the salt and lighter fluid. He came back to the grave at the same time that I began to climb out and started sprinkling the girl's remains with the necessary supplies. I lit the match before he had finished and threw it in the grave as he tossed the lighter fluid aside.

I turned to Dean, ready to tell him that I would clean up our mess after I got him back to the motel and made sure he was all right, but I saw something. No, not something. It was a lack of something. Creeping towards Dean was a void in the rain. Lightning chose to flash overhead at that moment and I saw what looked like an arm raise up and then plunge into Dean's side.

His eyes grew wide with the surprise attack and he crumbled to the ground clutching his side.

_Should've known you two were together_, the figure said in a familiar voice. _All the questions you both asked – I could tell you knew more than you were letting on_.

_Regen?_

_And this one,_ she said as she stepped over Dean's now unconscious and bleeding body, _he knew more still. I could hear it in the questions he asked. Of course, I could also hear how certain _you_ were in the questions you asked._

_If you thought I was so certain, why hurt my son? Why not just let us do what we came to do and then be on our way?_

_Oh hunter, if it was only that simple... _she took (what John assumed was) a step towards him._ If the boy there had only taken my word for it that Emily was innocent... But when I saw him digging up that poor girl..._

_Poor girl? I've never heard a demon talk that way. _John began slowly edging over towards Dean.

_Emily was of no concern! No threat! She wasn't meant to die and she would _not_ have come back. I told the boy that! That it was probably Rachel's spirit – not Emily's..._

_Emily died a violent death, too, Regen. How can you be so sure that she wouldn't come back?_

_Because I dealt with her! She was bound in silence. I explained that she was an unfortunate victim. She had no reason!_

_How did Dean end up in the grave? _John asked as he raised his shot gun at her.

_I _rolled_ him there, _she taunted and then laughed at the gun._ Your useless weapon can't kill me._

_No, but it will give you a push in the right direction. _John shot at the void and watched as it fell into the still-burning grave. Regen shrieked and sizzled and then boiled into nothingness.

**oo0oo**

John looked at Dean lying peacefully in the hospital bed. He had hated the idea of leaving his son while in surgery, but he had still needed to clean up at the cemetery, having left all of their weapons lying around and graves dug up – but at the time, he only could think about getting his son the help he needed. He knew that Dean likely had a concussion and was also sporting four deep gashes (that were easily mistaken for stab wounds) in his side from Regen's talon-like fingernails. He returned to the hospital in clean, dry clothes just after Dean had been taken to a room. After a couple hours (spent writing in his journal), Dean woke up.

"Hey Dad," he said roughly, still groggy.

"How you doing, son?"

"Like the ghost of a wannabe homecoming queen beat me up, I guess." He smiled an embarrassed little smile, then continued sincerely, almost sadly. "I'm sorry Dad. I should have kept my eyes open. I guess I let my guard down." He tried to stifle a large yawn. "I'm sorry I second-guessed you. It won't happen again."

John was at a loss. He had been stubborn and clung to his ideas out of his own wounded pride. Dean had been right and yet here he was apologizing, not realizing that his father's arrogance could have cost him his life.

"Dad?" John mentally shook himself out of his thoughts and looked at his son. Dean was still pale, exhausted, hurting – and his eyes showed the worry that his father would not forgive him.

"Just rest now, son," he told him, knowing that Dean needed his father and commander right now and not a sad excuse for the man he was supposed to be. "It might be a hard lesson," he added at the still troubled look on his son's face, "but as long as we learn from it..."

He didn't need to finish the thought. He could see Dean's mind finding a little peace and was now able to succumb to the exhaustion he was feeling. What Dean didn't know, couldn't know, was that the lessons were all for John.

John looked down at the pages he had just scribbled in his journal. Without re-reading them, he already knew that he was becoming a threat to his son's safety. He was getting closer to the evil thing that took his wife and he knew it would be the most dangerous battle he had ever fought. He knew he would need Dean (and Sammy, if he would agree) to help him fight it, but in the meantime he would have to distance himself.

Though he hated the thought of being away from both of his boys, it would be better than losing them outright. He needed to think of Dean's safety and, seeing his son sleeping not quite so peacefully in his hospital bed, he knew he wasn't safe with John.

As soon as Dean was well enough (though, not quite ready for another hunt), John would take his leave. They had split up to hunt separately before – he knew Dean wouldn't question it. In fact, he would probably feel guilty that he was not yet up to the fight. But, John couldn't back down.

They'd separate and John would send Dean on his own hunt when he was able – there was this gig in New Orleans that Jim had told him about that seemed right up Dean's alley. It would be hard to distance himself, harder than either of his sons could ever realize, but it was a necessary evil.

He looked down at his journal once more. He ripped out the two pages he had just written, folded them up, and placed them in a secret pocket in his wallet. Dean's notion of who and what his father was would drastically change if he knew the truth about their recent hunt – but that didn't mean John would forget, or that he should. Keeping the pages would be a reminder to him, a constant and painful reminder of what he almost lost.

Sighing, he picked up his pen once more and began writing a new entry.

**oo0oo**

Pioggia: elemental (water) demon. Takes human form but can camouflage its surface when wet, becoming invisible to the naked eye. Most dangerous in water (including rain).

Being an elemental, it finds symbolism in all of nature. For instance, a flower will be chosen for its meaning (examples – white oleander for caution, white rose for silence, white poppy for consolation)

Elemental demons are particularly vain and their actions usually reflect that.

They can be destroyed by their opposite element. The piogga are killed with fire; the fuoco (fire) are extinguished with water; the terra (earth) and aria (air) are thought to be extinct.


End file.
